34. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“On the Matter of Forgiveness”
Soak it in this brine of decay and deafness.
“ Y ou ready for this?” Sid asks as we head to the film room.
“No.”
As soon as we turn the corner, Aiden’s there, smack dab in front of the room.
“Ick.” I stop walking. His I’m-smarter-than-you brows are brought down a peg by his good-boy eyes, only to confuse you again as you scroll down to the rugged five o’clock shadow a shade lighter than his black hair. “He looks better than he did back then.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhm.”
Sid shrugs. “Salem’s hotter.”
I scoff. “Fuck off. Don’t look at him.”
He laughs. “I’m just saying, the last time a guy looked at me the way Salem looks at you, I ended up engaged.”
“He’s so hot.” I groan. “You should see the thirst-trap videos his pet sitter sends him. And his ex is hot too.”
“Who’s his ex?”
“You two wanna get your asses in here?” Coach yells in our direction.
“Lucien Laurent,” I reply as we haul it into the room.
“Oh, dayum. He is hot. He’s been an annual sponsor of my criminal justice reform gala for years.”
“Ugh.”
“Aight. But did he go on national TV and tell the world he wants Lucien?” he throws back.
My grin vanishes as I pass by Aiden and take a seat in the far corner.
“Let’s get into it,” Coach begins. “We know how Oklahoma plays. The key tomorrow night is to stop Milo?. We pull him out of his flow, everything else unravels. What does he feed off of the most?”
“Orchestrating the defense,” Sid answers, and I nod in agreement. One of the best centers in the league, the more Milo? facilitates, the more power he generates.
Coach points to Sid. “Correct. What’s our play?”
“Stay tight on cutters and shooters to limit pass opportunities,” I reply.
“Correct. What else?”
“Protect the paint,” Nick answers.
“That’s right. His vision’s 20/20 at reading the court. Stay on time with rotations, protect the rim, and make them go through us to get to the board.”
“Yeah, but even if we don’t give up passes,” a rook chimes in, eyes pinging between us, “he’s a sharpshooter.”
“Good point,” Sid says, making the youngin’ puff up. “But we’re top three in the league defensively for a reason. Ussef, Johan, and I will body up and force him to take tougher shots.”
“Make no mistake,” Coach says, “tomorrow’s game comes down to using the clock to our advantage and applying sustained pressure until the end. Aiden’s gonna walk us through film from our last matchup and then we’ll hit the court to work on adjustments.”
The energy shifts as Aiden stands, his legs slightly bowed—and cut.
I can’t fault the sideways glances coming my way, given yesterday’s…reaction. It doesn’t stop me from glaring at a rook and Jamie, nodding for them to move the fuck along.
It’s not very hard to ignore someone you need to ignore because not ignoring them makes you feel smaller and smaller with each breath. It becomes hard, though, when that someone calls you out.
“…after the rebound, Arnaz trailed the play.” His stylus draws an inverted triangle with me at the apex.
“If you—” I shoot daggers at the screen as he turns to me.
“If he sprinted and cut off the sideline instead, we’d force a half-court possession, thus preventing their point guard getting off a wide open three. ”
I grind my teeth at my obvious miss.
He’s right.
Gross.
Everyone seems to be eating up the shit he’s dishing.
“Your stance is too soft here,” he calls out Johan. “Get bigger, hands higher, contest the shot. You don’t let up on a player like this. Study the scouting report.”
I roll my eyes when Johan’s head nods up and down like a fucking bobblehead.
Traitors.
Still, no one can call me unprofessional or immature. I grit my teeth, but I listen.
Then we hit the court.
And…Eh. Professionalism is overrated.
“When he drives left, you need?—”
“Nah.” I stand up straight. “Go run drills with someone else.”
“Arnaz, it’s my job?—”
“Yo, James!” I call over another assistant coach. “Can you cover us?”
Aiden exchanges a glance with James, who shakes his head and falls back.
“I’ll fuck off once you listen to what I have to say,” he says.
“I said no,” I grit out. “I’m good to pay a fine. Back down, or I’m out.”
He raises his hands and backs off. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“It is like this,” I fire over my shoulder, giving him my back.
“Seriously?”
He’s waiting for me in the parking lot after practice.
“Can you just hear me out, and then I’ll fuck off?”
I keep walking, stabbing the unlock button on my—Sid’s—fob.
“Why here?” I launch my bag onto the seat as soon as the butterfly doors expand and spin to face him.
“What?”
“Of all the teams. Why this one?”
“I told you. They came knocking.”
“Nah. I don’t buy it.” I cross my arms. “You’re telling me we’re the only team that came knocking? All these years?”
He looks past me. “No. I’m not saying that.”
I knew it. “Then why?”
“You’re one of the best teams in the league.”
“You never cared about coaching the best. You always preferred underdogs.”
His hand swipes over his mouth, but not before I see the tiny smirk.
“Whatever you’re feeling right now, it’s not real. I don’t know you. I don’t want your coaching. You remember what you told me that day in the gym? Now it’s your turn to stay away from me.”
“How am I supposed to do that when I’m your assistant coach?”
I’m already walking away.
“We’re on the same team now, Arnaz.”
“Nah. Coach the other fourteen. I’m good.”
“It’s not that I didn’t feel what you felt,” he admits.
My footsteps falter.
I squeeze my eyes closed as he repeats the impossible.
“It doesn’t make it right. I was your?—”
I turn and lurch toward him. “You can’t say that!”
I swallow down the taste of vodka.
“ It’s true.”
“Don’t…” My voice cracks as the years unravel. “You can’t…”
“Okay,” he whispers, eyes glassy. “Okay.”
Ussef emerges from the arena, beelining straight toward us.
I can’t fucking be here.
As soon as the doors lower, I rev the engine and take off.